


rejoice, Her hands perform hexes

by smallredboy



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Curses, Gen, M/M, Pre-Arrangement (Good Omens), Religious Conflict, lowkey trans metaphors?, wrestling with god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2019-07-03
Packaged: 2020-06-03 15:57:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19467271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Because of what you have done, you will be the only animal to suffer this curse—There's only one part of his corporeal form that Crowley can't change at will.





	rejoice, Her hands perform hexes

**Author's Note:**

> for genprompt-bingo w/ the square "exile / stranded", bad things happen bingo with the square "loneliness" and hc-bingo with the square "ostracized from society"
> 
> as you can see i have... Feelings about our favorite demon boy.
> 
> title from _rejoice_ by ajj, changing the God pronouns, naturally.
> 
> enjoy!

Crowley gets his eyes only after he tempts Eve.

He didn’t even know She could still go on and affect him, his appearance, anything about him. For all he knew, the only being that could still do anything to his being that was worthwhile was Satan himself and well, his own person. He can change his appearance jsut fine, but as She curses him, he can’t anymore.

It’s a mark, and he can’t change it.

When those bloody humans invent the mirror is the first time he gets a real good look at it. At his eyes, the amber sclera, the reminder that he’s a snake and will always be _the_ serpent. He tries to shapeshift like he’s always been able to, and he can change it all— the shape of hsi eyes, his brows, anything around them, but the color and the sclera remain the same. 

He’s different. As soon as he knows how to hide it, he hides it, wearing little glass things darkened so no one can see them. He gets odd looks; the things based on what he wears, sunglasses, won’t come around until the twentieth century; and well, that is thousands of years away.

Humans repel at him; especially women. That’s the other part of the curse, the one he doesn’t think too much about, because well, he’s not meant to be fraternizing with humans much anyway. He’s supposed to be annoying them, tempting them, reaping souls for his Lord or whatever in Hell he’s supposed to be doing. It’s not like he cares, really, it’s not like he actually cares about what he’s supposed to do.

“Why do you care so much about your eyes?” Beelzebub asks him while he’s down at the head office, looking at one of the mirrors intently.

“I don’t—!” he hisses, struggling with words and carding his fingers through his long hair. “If they see them they know I’m not one of them.”

Beelzebub blinks at him owlishly, like he’s just said a ridiculous thing. He shrinks on himself a little. “Why do you want to pass as human, Crawly?” she asks, voice as venomous as the serpent’s should be.

But he’s never really felt like the serpent.

He shrugs. “Forget it,” he tells her. “It’s easier to, you know, create chaos, if they think I’m one of theirs.”

“Just keep wearing your contraption, then,” she says, pointing vaguely at his proto-sunglasses. “Whatever they are.”

He puts them on and gives her a forced smile. “Yeah, I know.”

The worst part is, perhaps, the sheer difference. Aziraphale can pass as human just fine; hell, he’s sure any angel could pass as human just fine if they just tried to do so. And Aziraphale does try— he likes humans, he enjoys their creativity, their personality, their love for all things and their hatred for all things. Humans are a fickle thing.

Crowley thinks back to when he hadn’t Fallen, sometimes. The memories are fuzzy and jagged at the edges, but they’re memories. They’re feelings. Love, adoration, hope, faith. All things he felt for Her, naturally. He doesn’t like to think about Her for too much.

He asked questions. That’s all he did.

“Why do you never question things?” Crowley spits at Aziraphale one day, like the mere idea of being complacent is the worst thing one could be.

And Aziraphale looks at him, with that sad look, with that pitying look— and ah, it’s because he doesn’t want to Fall.

He curls up his fists, clenches them so hard blood drips out of his puny attempt at a human palm. “They won’t let you Fall just because of asking questions, Principality Aziraphale,” he tells him with that anger that threatens to tear everything apart. He wants to not be formal, he wants to get closer, closer to Aziraphale, but he can’t. He can’t. So he settles for his title. “That was just in the old days. In the Beginning. You’ll be fine thinking about how things work once in a while, trust me of all fuckin’ people on that.” 

He turns around with the complete intention to leave Aziraphale’s little house in Egypt, but instead he crumbles down. All the anger in his body gets right out of it, palms still bleeding, and he coughs, his head spinning.

“Demon Crowley,” Aziraphale says with the same formality, even as he kneels down next to him, puts a careful hand on his back. “Are you okay?”

He leans into the touch, as much as he thinks he could give Aziraphale the same fate as him just by letting him in like this. How Aziraphale could Fall for fraternizing with a demon, and oh, he wants him to fraternize, really, he does, but if he Falls because of him—

He coughs again. “I’m good,” he lies. 

Aziraphale still leans in and hugs him. Tears threaten to fall, but he clenches his jaw, bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. He won’t let himself cry in front of the Enemy. Not now, not yet, not ever. Even if he yearns for a time where the Enemy wasn’t his Enemy yet.


End file.
